


Real or Not Real?

by LightningStriking



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Fluff, Hair Brushing Because It's Cute Gosh Darn It, Hurt, Lets Play 50 Questions, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Tragic Romance, sad Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5757637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningStriking/pseuds/LightningStriking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bucky returns to Steve unexpectedly, the men try to move forward, not the easiest thing when Bucky is trying to put together the broken pieces Hydra created inside of him.  Steve does his best to help Bucky remember his past, which results in an unexpected revelation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'll Tell You Anything You Need to Know

**Author's Note:**

> My first short story about Stucky instead of a full length story. This was inspired by the incredible song "I'll Be Good" by Jaymes Young, a song that in my opinion fits Bucky and Steve's situation perfectly, specifically Bucky wanting to be more than he has been.

He’d shown up on a stormy night. The black of the sky had only been broken by brief, jagged bolts of lightning, which, once gone made the returning dark seem even deeper. It was the sort of night that Steve welcomed, the sound of the atmosphere crashing managing to drown out the voices in his head, the shadows welcoming him in their embrace. He didn’t feel he deserved the light any more. Not when he’d failed the most important person in his life. He’d failed Bucky.

            The guilt he carried was so much worse now than it had ever been before. He’d thought he’d understood it, known every nuance of remorse when it had crushed him seventy years ago. After all, what could possibly rip him apart more than failing to save his best friend, watching him fall to his death? And all because Bucky had been helping Steve, watching over him and protecting him as he always had.

            Yet months ago, Steve had discovered that was only the beginning. Because he’d met the Winter Soldier on the bridge. And learned that he hadn’t caused his best friend to die. But instead, had abandoned him to a never ending fate of torture and pain. Which was indescribably worse.

            Peggy had told Steve not to blame himself when he’d lost Bucky. Natasha had said it wasn’t his fault once he’d found Bucky. But Steve knew they were both wrong. He’d failed Bucky. And so tirelessly, since waking up in a hospital bed with bullet wounds in his body and a gaping hole in his heart, he had searched. Looked high and low, journeyed to Russia and back trying to follow the trail of Hydra’s most valued asset. Every day that passed with no sign of him, Steve came a little closer to drowning beneath the waves of sorrow that buffeted at him, reminding him that the single human alive who had known him before didn’t remember at all.

            Sitting alone in the dark, it took him longer than it should have to realize he wasn’t alone. He’d been staring down into the glass of water in his hands, wishing an alcohol strong enough existed that would allow him to burn away his thoughts. Yet gradually, he had sensed more than seen the individual standing inside his patio doors, silhouetted by the watered down glow of the street lights far below. Instantly Steve had stood, made to reach for his shield leaning against the wall, when lightning had split the sky, and he had seen the cold gleam of white on metal. And he’d known.

            “Bucky,” he’d whispered weakly, almost afraid to believe, fearing his guilt and all-consuming need to see his best friend again had conjured images in the dark to torture Steve further. Bucky hadn’t disappeared, yet neither had he moved, standing so close to an easy escape. A way to disappear from Steve’s life once more.

            Uncertain what to do, but holding still, Steve knew that moving towards Bucky, attempting to pull him into an embrace the way every cell in his body was screaming to do might only be seen as a sign of aggression. Might make Bucky evaporate back into the night. So eventually, slowly, Steve sat back down, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped before him. Unthreatening. Weaponless. Undemanding. And ever so slowly, he watched the tension slowly melt from a body taunt as steel. With the weak light at Bucky’s back, and the darkness before him, it was impossible for Steve to make out his face, see the expression upon it, but he knew without a doubt he was being pinned beneath that hidden gaze. When Bucky made no further move, Steve having no brighter idea, nodded at the empty chair across from him. “Would you like to have a seat?”

            Bucky hadn’t responded. But a long minute later, he had slowly walked into the room. And taken the seat across from Steve. From this distance, so close yet impossibly far, Steve could see Bucky’s face now, but the light revealed nothing, when his features could have been carved from ice. When no words were spoken, Steve knew it was up to him to steer this. Praying he wouldn’t crash and burn, he bit his lip, considered and rejected a thousand questions. And he finally realized there was only one that truly mattered to him. One that would decide just how much further this night might break Steve, decide if he would shatter beyond all recovery.

            “Bucky. Do you remember me?”

            The fractures in his already broken heart shuddered, braced, attempted to prepare to fall apart completely. And then froze at the words that came in that voice Steve he knew so well. The tone was flat, the cadence all wrong. But he knew that voice, and Steve’s breath caught in his chest at hearing it again.

            “Steve. Your name is Steve.” Steve’s grip grew punishing, but he did not release it, knowing if he did he would be reaching out for Bucky. For his best friend.

            “Yes,” he managed to choke out. At the confirmation, he watched as Bucky’s gaze, so intense and piercing grew unfocused, as though he were no longer seeing what was in front of him, but instead sorting through a broken kaleidoscope of memories.

            The two man had sat in silence, so many things left unsaid. Steve was afraid of breaking it. Afraid of the slightest push fracturing the calm in the man who sat before him, who was both his oldest companion, and a complete stranger. At last, he toke the chance, and asked Bucky to stay. And to Steve’s utter shock, Bucky quietly stared at him, before at last, at last, he simply said, “Okay.”

 

 

And he had stayed. Steve had been on edge, for days then weeks, simply waiting for the moment Bucky would disappear again. But every night he went to bed, so conscious of Bucky in the room next to him, and woke each morning to the sheer surprise of Bucky still being there. At first, they had spoken very little, Steve simply offering Bucky everything he might possibly want, Bucky accepting it all, though there was always a hesitation. As though he feared anything he grabbed for might be snatched away. Every time he uncertainly reached out a hand, it broke something more within Steve, yet knowing that he himself was providing Bucky with those things healed him at the same time. He would give Bucky everything. Give him the heart out of his chest if Bucky asked for it. Yet Bucky asked for nothing.

            Steve had been hesitant to let anyone know Bucky was now living with him, afraid of the reaction, fearful of what people might want from Bucky, whether it was something as simple as answers, or something as terrible as incarceration. Eventually though he had trusted Natasha, Bruce any Tony. Natasha had simply gifted him another gun in case he needed to defend himself, while saying she hoped it would never be necessary. Tony had shown up with a tool kit and after Steve had coaxed Bucky into sitting still for it, made repairs to the arm that had been damaged in the battle on the helicarrier, all the while chatting about rock bands of the seventies while Bucky staring at Steve with furrowed brows and confused eyes.

            The most helpful of all, Bruce who had suggested Steve tell Bucky stories of their past. Bruce had hypothesized that even with some things coming back to him, Steve’s identity for one, Bucky might be struggling to remember all of his past, wade through the cracks created in his psyche by Hydra and their mind erasing techniques. And so Steve had begun, cautiously at first, to tell little stories about their life before the war. About how Steve had always been cold, and Bucky had always loaned him his coat. About the couch cushion forts they’d built, even as adults. When Bucky had paid such close attention his gaze was nearly a physical sensation on Steve’s skin, he’d chanced saying more. Not just the words, but what they had revealed about himself, and the relationship they’d had. About how Bucky had tried to teach Steve how to dance and how Steve had failed miserably, a secret they’d both sworn they’d take to the grave.

            Finally, Bucky had begun to reply, asking his own questions. He’d struggled to piece together what was real, and what was drug and torture induced illusions, and so Steve had encouraged Bucky to ask him anything, with Steve telling him if it was real or not. Even those questions he didn’t personally know the answer to, Steve used every resource from Google to Shield’s database to attempted and answer. Even when the answers were hard, like confirming that Bucky had indeed assassinated Howard Stark, the one thing he swore he’d never do was lie to Bucky, because more than anything, he needed to be someone Bucky trusted completely. To always give him the truth, no matter how much it hurt. Because while some of those answers _did_ hurt Bucky, Steve knew feeling broken hurt him even more. With every solid response, Bucky was joining the fractures back together, piecing together a picture of who he was. It wasn’t always pretty, but it was real.

            Steve had never expected the turn this routine would take. Two months after Bucky’s incredible reappearance, the men had developed a rhythm to their day, one that though filled with lengthy silences, was no longer the tense affair it had been before. Instead it was comfortable, simply absorbing each other’s company as they cooked together, ate meals together, watched television together, and simply existed. Steve was beginning to believe Bucky wasn’t going to disappear, and Bucky had come to trust he wouldn’t be hurt while in Steve’s care.

            One afternoon, Steve had been on the couch, Bucky sitting before him on the floor, eyes closed as he enjoyed the sensation of Steve gently running a brush through his hair. Steve had discovered Bucky would approach violence when he suggested cutting the hair that at this point brushed Bucky’s shoulder, and so had completely abandoned that idea. But when Steve offered to instead comb out the tangles, Bucky had considered the offer, and finally accepted.

            They’d both been equally surprised to discover just how much Bucky enjoyed having his hair brushed, and so now at least once a day found the men in this position, Steve appreciating the experiencing just as much as Bucky. To take care of his friend in any way smoothed out the jagged edges within him. Absorbed with the task, Steve had been answering the latest round of Real or Not Real questions Bucky had been slowly asking, his attention vague. That is, until Bucky had fallen silent after asking if Steve had been a newspaper boy pre-war – real – and if he had been a drummer for a night club band – not real. And then, with no preamble, he had asked if they had been lovers.

            Steve had dropped his brush in shock at the question, heat suffusing his face as he noted absently the way Bucky continued to sit between his legs, no change in his demeanor, no signal that this question was any more important than whether he’d liked spaghetti over steak. Clearing a throat that suddenly felt as though a fist was wrapped around it, Steve had to try twice to get his words to form. “Um, no. Not real.”

            “Oh,” Bucky said. Leaning back the slightest bit, it was a silent demand that Steve continue, and so with hands that suddenly felt clumsy and uncoordinated, Steve picked the brush back up, and began to run it through the dark, waving strands once more. Mind in shambles, he decided he had to know, and so carefully posed the question he desperately needed answered.

            “Why do you ask? Had someone told you we were?”

            A long silence. A clearly thoughtful silence. “No. I just had… memories. I guess they were dreams instead.”

            This time, when Steve’s hands fell still, Bucky pushed to his knees, turning so he faced Steve, blue eyes meeting blue. Ever so slowly, as though this time Bucky feared Steve might be the one to run away, Bucky reached out, put a hand over Steve’s. He blinked when Steve’s hand flexed beneath his own, then ever so slowly tangled their fingers together.

            “Do you-” Steve paused, cleared his throat again. “Do you have a lot of them?”

            “Yes,” Bucky replied without hesitation, watched the heat that rose in Steve’s cheeks, though the other man didn’t give in to the need to protect his thoughts by turning his gaze away.

            Bucky watched Steve so calmly. But there was more than patience in that gaze – there was expectation. And Steve had promised he’d never lie to him.

            “So do I,” he managed to bite out. And was rewarded with that mouth, so sculpted and so serious, curving up slowly into a smile – the first he’d seen in seventy years. It was heartbreaking, beautiful, and everything Steve had ever dreamed about.

            “You’ve always wanted me. Real or not real?”

            “Real,” Steve murmured.   Bucky nodded, the smile turning into something warmer. More intimate. And he showed a mercy Steve hadn’t expected when he immediately replied.

            “So did I.”

            Steve’s breath was heaving, his lungs straining for breath as though he’d just run miles, something close to, but not quite panic thrumming through his veins. Attempting to process this incredible development, discovering that Bucky had wanted _him_ all this time, when Steve had been so hopelessly, or so he thought, in love with is best friend. He’d always cared for his friend more than he knew he should, more than was allowed. And while he’d been drowning beneath the weight of that love, he’d never once considered expressing it to Bucky.

            In part because it simply wasn’t something accepted in the 40’s, and there had been no way they could have _been_ together, certainly not in all the ways he’d dreamed about. But most of all, he had feared being rejected by Bucky, terrified that those eyes which had always looked at him with an affection and admiration Steve knew full well he didn’t deserve would look upon with him horror instead, or worse yet, disgust. Because how could Steve, so weak and small, be worthy of someone as handsome and kind and strong as Bucky? So he’d kept them to himself, doing his best to never stare at Bucky too long. To never lean into a casual hug that should have only been made out of friendship. To never speak the words of love that hovered on his lips, which tasted darker on his tongue the longer he held them back.  

            Finally lowering his gaze to where their hands were pressed together, Steve tried to swallow. Still feared, despite the wonder and impossibility of the words Bucky was telling him now, that he would see that look he’d always dreaded one day receiving. He felt a gasp tear out of his throat when suddenly metal fingers, cool and smooth, were gliding along the line of his jaw, burying themselves in short blond strands of hair, tugging until Steve’s head was tilted back just the slightest bit. The perfect bit, so that Bucky’s mouth was hovering an inch over Steve’s lips which parted in an involuntary reaction at the breath brushing warm over his face. “I should kiss you now. Real or not real?”

            Christ, this was happening. Abandoning all effort to process, and simply giving thanks to the God who had at _last_ seen fit to bring the men together, Steve managed to breath out, “Real,” an instant before those gorgeous lips descended over his. And at _last_ he was kissing Bucky. His best friend, and the love of his life.

 


	2. Tell What I Need To Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staying with Steve, and trying to be more than an Asset has left Bucky struggling to understand who he is and what he's done. He has more questions than he can find the words for, but eventually believes Steve will tell him everything he needs to know.

It had been hell, not knowing. When Bucky, who at that point had been nothing more than an _Asset_ , had pulled Steve from the water, he hadn’t understood why. Hadn’t been able to fathom an action that had not been dictated, or sanctioned. For longer than he could remember, all he did was exactly as he was told. He hadn’t known there existed a part deep inside of him, a spark beneath the ice, that could whisper a different answer. When he’d felt it, heard it, the Asset hadn’t known what to do. Yet that spark, so incredibly powerful for being so incredibly small, had insisted that the man he’d watched fall into the water, that man was worth saving. And the Asset had listened. Not because he’d understood, or even believed that voice. But simply because he’d never heard it before. Though he no longer understood the concept of hope, he’d _hoped_ if he had listened to that voice, he might hear more. And he had.

            Refusing to return to his handlers, that had been his second act. Going back into their care was the only thing he’d ever known, and his directive after any mission. Yet then again, he hadn’t finished this mission. By choice. Choice… a concept that he had thought about, at length, before he could wrap his mind around the fact he’d made one. He continued to make them. More and more, he made choices. And the very act of it made the ice surrounding his mind, his body, crack and break into jagged shards.

            He’d chosen to stay out of Hydra’s hands. A simple enough task when they could never have comprehended he would attempt to do so. He’d had the skills all along. He’d simply lacked the reason. But he, _Bucky_ , that was his name, Bucky had found a reason. The spark was his reason. And that spark had only appeared in the presence of the man who had been his mission.

            Bucky had considered it for days, then weeks as he existed. He might have seemed aimless, had anyone been watching. But he hadn’t been. He’d been searching. Not in the world that he felt no comfort in wandering freely. But in his own mind. A broken, sharp, painful place. It had _hurt_ to shove through his thoughts, through memories that he didn’t know if he could trust. Whatever had been done to him, had been done well, and it had been no easy task to get a grasp on the few things he knew. The only one he was entirely certain of, was that man had known him, even if Bucky didn’t know himself.

            Enough of his mission parameters had remained with Bucky to remember his target. Steve Rogers. Captain America. With that, Bucky had visited the exhibit on him at a museum, disquiet coursing through him to be surrounded by so many people. But that primal reaction had faded away like smoke when he had moved slowly forward, and greeted a face he never expected in the silent playing film. It looked as though it was his own.

            His name was printed there to see. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Just like that man had said. Eyes narrowing, Bucky had watched a grin spread over that face that looked something yet nothing like his. The Asset had never smiled. Never laughed. Never looked at anyone the way James Buchanan Barnes looked at the tall blond standing beside him. Watching the video loop, playing the two men in black and white, so happy and easy together, he’d known there was only one person he could get answers from, and just possibly believe would not stab him through the heart in the process. He wouldn’t have called it trust, because the Asset had never learned the concept. Yet the blond had refused to fight back, refused to end it all when he’d had the chance. So perhaps… just perhaps. He would not attempt to kill Bucky now. Would not force Bucky to retaliate, and unwillingly finish the mission. The only one he’d ever left undone.

            Finding Steve Rogers had been simple enough. Not only was his location public knowledge, Bucky had some flickers of memory, some recollection of shooting through Steve Roger’s window. Not enough to remember what could only be a previous mission, because after all, he’d only existed on the missions, but enough that he’d felt assured he’d found the right location. For hours, he’d stared at the building. If someone had been watching now, they might had said he felt apprehension. Even fear. They would have been mistaken. He only felt a deep stillness inside himself. Almost, a gathering.

            Finally, he had propelled himself forward. Slipped into the apartment as simply as he breathed. And waited for that man to look at him once more. He had to _know_. If that expression would be on his face once more. The way he’d looked at the Asset on the helicarrier. The way he’d looked at James Buchanan Barnes in a film seventy years ago. And when at last the blond had raised his head, recognition written so clearly upon his face, it had been there. Buried among other feelings the Asset was trained to recognize, even if he felt none of them himself. Fear, shock, happiness, and a soul deep grief. Seeing it, that spark inside of him, it had leapt. Burned brighter, hotter, and fiercer than anything he’d experienced yet. Experiencing it, Bucky did the last thing he’d expected, and agreed to stay.

            In the days that passed, he hadn’t known what to do. Didn’t know how to ask for whatever it was he was looking for. It had taken a week to work out what that even was for himself. That small flame which only burned harder the longer he spent in the company of Steve had whispered that answer at him. Bucky had wanted to piece together who he was. Recall his past, even if he didn’t ever understand the version of himself that had known how to laugh.   And as he saw that same expression on Steve’s face, each time the blond had looked at him, he’d eventually wanted to fathom what that look meant. Why it created a response inside of him, a compulsion of sorts. To want to be closer, nothing but closer to Steve.

            Discomfort at having wants at all, and specifically wants that made no sense to him, Bucky had left every single night. Intending to stay away, to rediscover himself in a different manner. Yet that same compulsion that left him feeling like he was stumbling along a razor sharp wire, trying to keep his balance, always had him turning back after hours at most. Crawling back in through the same window he’d escaped out of. And waiting each morning for Steve to rise, to begin their day together.

            It was that urge that kept him coming back for more. And when Steve, so carefully, so delicately, had begun to tell him their history in soft words and a gentle voice, the spark had become a wild fire, hungrily leaping upon the proof that Bucky had existed. That this feeling, whatever it was, had been built on something _real_ , not just a blank space where memories should be. The moment Steve had begun to share the stories, the more his discomfort faded, his desire to be somewhere, anywhere else, disappearing entirely. Of course he would stay by Steve, always be by his side. Isn’t that what Steve had unintentionally proven? That Bucky had always been there. Until he hadn’t. . .

            That, Bucky had managed to piece together on his own, though it had taken Steve to help him to understand. The nights where he finally, simply stayed, lying in bed until his body relaxed enough to shut down, he had slept. And for the first time he could remember, he saw things, in his sleep. Painful, horrible, terrible things. Both things that he’d done, and things that had been done to him. He’d woken from them, sweaty panic buried beneath the ice cold response of the Asset responding to a threat, immediately flying into violence. Yet Steve, who had somehow known every single time Bucky was assaulted by terror in the darkest hours of the night, had been there. Steve kept him from hurting himself, or anyone else. Calmed him down. And at last, taken the chance to hesitant put an arm around Bucky. Cautiously pulled him into a hug. Bucky had stood like a statue carved from ice, incomprehension in his mind and panic continuing to surge through his veins. Yet, he hadn’t pulled away.

            Steve had ran a hand over his hair, tucked Bucky’s face into Steve’s neck, and murmured comforting words, telling him it was all a dream. It was over, and he never had to go back. Bucky had struggled to process it all, both the words and having another human touching him. Holding him. Without causing him any pain. He didn’t know such a thing was possible, couldn’t remember touch without accompanying agony. Yet he hadn’t pulled away. Because the spark had whispered at him, reminded him how Steve had done nothing but give him everything he could possibly need, and asked for nothing in return. So this embrace, Steve must once more understand what Bucky did not. Must know it’s what he needed.

            Finally relaxing into it, Bucky had left his face pressed into warm, soft skin and firm muscle. He hesitantly lifted a hand of metal, fisted it in the back of Steve’s shirt. Waited, on razors edge, to be denied. Steve had only held him closer. And suddenly it had occurred to Bucky, perhaps Steve was holding him because it was what _Steve_ needed. The thought brought the simmering spark roaring into a blaze. Instincts he didn’t know he had screamed to life. Giving Steve what he needed, protecting him, taking care of him, it was the very first thing the spark had whispered at him to do. Now, Bucky realized that compulsion was in his soul, if he still or had ever had such a thing.

            Once they’d started, the images in his sleep never ceased. Some of them were still of blood and fear. Filling in the blank of how Steve and Bucky had come to be apart, seventy years before. Of falling, endlessly falling, and praying for the end, only to discover it was simply the beginning. Those were the worst. Others, they were illogical, but nothing frightening. And some were _nice_. Warm and soft, they made him feel something new. Something he finally understood was happy. The same thing he felt being with Steve in his waking hours. He felt happy.

            He’d begun to ask Steve about the contents of these images, been surprised to discover they weren’t all real. Been confused, until Steve had explained, that _look_ on his face once more, that they were dreams. Sometimes of things that had never happened, sometimes memories of things that had.   Bucky hadn’t understood the concept of dreams – because the Asset had had nothing to dream for. But Bucky did, now that he was with Steve.

            Steve seemed to be happy too. Bucky had been uncertain he was judging that correctly, yet with each passing day, Steve never seemed to grow tired of him. Instead Steve smiled at him, spent every moment with him, spoke to him. And always, that look was on his face, the one that seemed reserved for Bucky. Staring at it, Bucky concentrated. Dove into his broken mind until he could pull out a single memory, of before. The man before him had been smaller, looked up into his face instead of down, a weakness about him that made Bucky’s chest clench now in delayed reaction, even knowing it was no longer a threat to the incredibly strong, _healthy_ man Steve was now. That version of Steve, though so different, had looked at Bucky with that exact same look. One that blazed from incredible blue eyes, and made Bucky’s heart pound in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Steve had stared at him with something more, and Bucky had to know that that more was.

            More thoughts, memories? had come tumbling in after that. Memories of holding Steve close, of lowering his mouth to Steve’s, of holding each other with greedy hands that couldn’t get enough. Of moving together in ways that made his body tighten in physical response to the recollection. Yet Steve did none of those things now, and Bucky didn’t know what to make of it. He would have assumed that perhaps after everything, after the ways that Bucky had hurt him, Steve no longer wanted him. It would have made sense. After all, Bucky couldn’t fathom why Steve would ever have wanted him to begin with, when the memory of Steve that grew more complete every day was of an incredible person, so intensely strong and true and kind, and _beautiful_. And Bucky didn’t know that if even before falling, he’d ever been any of those things.

            He would have left it at that. Never spoken of things that seemed destined to stay in the past, not part of his future, no matter how much he grew to wish otherwise. But that _look_. It came, time and time again, where Steve stared at him with something more than simple friendship. It looked like need. It looked like love. And finally Bucky had to know.

            “We were lovers. Real or not real?” It was only decades of conditioning that had permitted him to sit so still, keep his voice even, his pulse steady. When inside him, everything had been a frantic, chaotic blur, fear a loud ringing in his ear. Still, he’d been able to hear the breath whoosh from Steve’s lungs, as though he’d been punched solidly in the gut. Bucky had picked up the tremble in his voice when Steve had finally replied, “Um, no. Not real.”

            Everything inside of him had fallen still in shock, ice threatening to coat over his mind once more. Because he hadn’t truly considered the possibility they _weren’t_ real. Not when they’d come to him during the day, when he was awake and aware. Sitting there, trying to piece together how that could be, he realized that while they had been memories, they weren’t memories of true things. They were memories of _dreams_ he’d had before. And Bucky cursed himself for not being able to understand the difference. Cursed Hydra for turning what had been a man into a wreck of a human being, a broken tool that could never function the same again.

            He wouldn’t have spoken another word of it. Would have asked a question about something else, something meaningless to distract, once he was capable of thinking of anything else. But it was Steve who spoke of it next, his voice clearly attempting to sound casual, and failing miserably. “Why do you ask? Had someone told you we were?”

            Bucky paused, upon hearing that tone. It was both fearful and yet somehow… desperate. And he considered. He believed Steve had told him the truth that they’d never been lovers. Yet if the idea had been repellent to Steve, why would he be looking for an explanation? Pondering what to say, Bucky realized there was only one option. Steve never lied to him. Bucky wouldn’t either. Even if exposing himself further left him feeling more vulnerable than he could ever remember. “No. I just had… memories. I guess they were dreams instead.”

            The hands that had so gently, wonderfully, been pulling a brush through his hair, bringing him pleasure that called to mind the pleasure he’d only imagined the men had once shared, had fallen still. And Bucky thought he’d managed to shock Steve just as much as he’d been shocked. Needing to understand where these words left them, Bucky slowly moved to his knees, turning to stare at Steve, needing to see what expression was painted upon that face he knew better than he knew his own.  

            And just as always, though more so then ever before, his look was there. The one that blazed, burning beneath the shyness and fear that vied for space on Steve’s face. And Bucky understood all in a moment, while they may never have been lovers, that did not mean that Steve had never wanted it to be. That it couldn’t become true. . . Taking a chance, Bucky laid his hand of flesh over Steve’s, wanting to feel the sensation, absorb it through his skin. He felt his heart shudder when Steve jerked at the touch, and then cautiously turned his hand over, until their fingers could lace together.

            “Do you-” Steve had stopped, struggled to find his voice. “Do you have a lot of them?”

            There could only be the truth from Bucky. And the spark whispered that perhaps in give it, Bucky might get everything he’d ever wanted. “Yes.”

            “So do I,” Steve spoke at length. And the fear, the pain at being wrong, the ice trying to protect him from more hurt had all melted away. Because Steve always told the truth. And knowing that Steve had dreamed of him just the same, it made that feeling he was still getting used to, happiness, burst out of him in a radiance that couldn’t be contained. It felt strange, but right, when he smiled. And though he couldn’t see it, could only feel it, Bucky thought this is how he might have looked when he’d smiled up at Steve in that old black and white film. Incredibly, unquestionably happy.  

            It wasn’t so hard to ask the next question, the one that he felt he already knew the answer to. When Steve had always stared up at him with that look. “You’ve always wanted me. Real or not real?”

            “Real.”

            Seeing the traces of fear still lingering upon Steve’s face, Bucky wanted Steve to experience the same painless burn he himself was feeling, to know that light filling him up. And so his next words were incredibly easy. “So did I.”

            Unable to resist the need, and unable to think of a single reason he should, Bucky reached out and touched that face with his other hand, tracing that jaw line, tangling his fingers in silky hair like he’s been imagining doing for days now. He pulled just the slightest bit when he could still see the fear in that blue gaze. That was alright. Bucky felt no more fear, and this time, he could be the brave one. For both of them.

            “I should kiss you now. Real or not real?”

            “Real,” had come the response. And at last, Bucky lowered his mouth to Steve’s, and in an instant, he could so easily see how his “memories” from before had only been dreams. Because they did not come close to how it felt now, couldn’t begin to compare the absolute fucking wonder of tasting Steve, feeling the softness beneath his lips. Drinking in the sensation of it, Bucky felt sure no one’s imagination could come close to the heaven he felt now, as Steve reached out, impatiently skimming his hands down Bucky’s back, before gripping his hips in an unbreakable grip. As the Asset, Bucky knew far too acutely what it was to have everything demanded of him. But now he learned, as Steve’s hands, Steve’s mouth, wordlessly pleaded for more, that having a demand made by someone he loved, made him only too eager to comply. He would give Steve everything. And now, at last, they could build memories together, ones that no one or nothing could steal ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! I'm super pleased with this short story about Steve and Bucky, and hope you enjoyed it as well. If you did, I would be so happy if you leave a comment and let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this small fragment of Steve and Bucky's life! I enjoy exploring them trying to repair themselves and the relationship they used to have. Your comments are always appreciated! :)


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